The Brother
by Magiclulajane
Summary: Harry Potter has a twin brother, who is the boy who lived. Thinking he is a squib he grows up in the muggle world with friends and an absent family, wanting nothing more than to be like his brother. But when his 11th comes around along with two hogwarts letters Harry has to decide, does he want to be a wizard anymore? NO BASHING!


**Hi! Magiclulajane here. Writing more fanfiction. I know I have two stories to update, but I wrote this a while ago and I've decided I want to publish it. **

**Full summary: Harry Potter has a twin brother, who is the boy who lived. Thinking he is a squib he grows up in the muggle world with friends and the rather large shadow of the absent Potters. NO BASHING. The Potters are actually good parents, scared for the wizarding world and for the wellbeing of there other son. Dumbledore is just a little oblivious. Basically, when Harry's eleventh comes around it turns out HE'S A WIZARD (bet you didn't see that twister coming). But what if he doesn't **_**want**_ **to be a wizard any more?**

**Well he'll probably end up at hogwarts anyway.**

**But READ TO FIND OUT and all that crap.**

**The first chapter is entirely composed of short anecdotes, ranging from like 3 pages to a single paragraph. They make up Harry's early childhood as his brother is discovered, and he is sort of forgotten (but not actually neglected.) Next chapter will have a HUGE time jump of 4 years to when Harry is about-ish to turn 11.**

**WARNING the anecdotes start in a purposefully whimsical childish style and then get more serious/author-y as Harry grows up a little.**

**Just give it a go :)**

_Magic_. The word rang through Harry's childhood, a refrain he could return to at a moments notice. Mama would talk about it, and she'd get that glittery look in her eye, like the sun was glowing somewhere inside her. Daddy would laugh that laugh reserved for the times he would soar around the back yard on his broomstick, smiling as Harry and Jimmy watched with eyes like saucers. Magic was something reverent, something special-and Harry would have it sometime, sometime soon. That's what daddy said every time he ruffled Harry's hair, and mama would scoff saying it was already messy enough. Jimmy would laugh daddy's laugh, which was also his laugh. Jimmy's hair was like mom's, shaggy and red, while Harry's was a mess of black curls that always made people say he looked just like James, who was his daddy.

Jimmy would tease him for his knobby knees and his round glasses, no matter how many times Harry explained that if he didn't wear them he had to squint all the time (which wasn't any fun). But secretly Harry knew he was jealous, Jimmy and daddy were a lot alike-and he knew his brother wished he could look like daddy too. Harry didn't see what was wrong with looking like mommy, who was very lovely-a word he learned from Miss Wittman across the road-and didn't people want to be lovely? Miss Wittman obviously wished she was lovely-er. But it was a secret and Harry wasn't supposed to tell, just like he wasn't supposed to tell Miss Wittman about Magic.

Harry wished he could talk to Miss Wittman. She seemed to be the opposite of Harry's family, when they were all crowded together. It was a few months before he realized the word he was searching for was lonely. But he didn't know what to talk to her about, if she wasn't in on the magic secret. Magic was all mama and daddy talked about-or at least things to do with magic, like broomsticks and a magic alley named Diagon. All mama and Daddy's friends, like the Longbottoms and Uncle Padfoot talked about Magic too-it made Harry sad that Miss Wittman didn't get to do it too. Maybe thats why she was the opposite of crowded, because what was the point of people if there wasn't anything to talk about?

Harry and Jimmy were five when Jimmy got magic. They were eating dinner with Uncle Moony and Uncle Padfoot when Jimmy tipped his cup off the table-mama's best China cups she'd gotten from Grandma, who had gone away for an awfully long time. This made mama sad, and it made the cups special-Harry didn't know why. But as the cup fell, Jimmy reached out in panic-his hands much to far away to reach. Harry squinted his eyes under his glasses, because when the cup cracked mama would be sad again-and Uncle Moony and Uncle Padfoot would leave. Sometimes when bad things happened Harry would squint so they would go away, it didn't usually work. But this time, instead of one of those silences that seemed to scream through the room there was a big gasp.

Harry opened his eyes to see the cup teetering a foot above the ground, Jimmy's hands still circling it though not touching.

Mama cried, but not the grandma kind of crying, the happy sort, and daddy ruffled Jimmy's hair like he always did Harry's and everyone crowded around his brother, laughing and smiling and crying and then laughing again.

Harry wanted to be happy like everyone else. But instead he felt something bad in his stomach, like the feeling he always felt about Miss Wittman. The opposite of crowded, even in a full room. The lonely made something in him hurt, not like when he scraped his knee, like something big and black was crowded up inside him. Like mama's sunshine, but dark and shady.

Harry hadn't ever been jealous before, especially not of his brother. His brother gave him that crowded feeling, that sunny feeling that was the antonym of whatever he felt now. He didn't like it, it made him feel hot and frozen all at once, which made him shudder.

"Harry sweety," Mama said, furrowing her brow in that way that blocked out that glittery look, like a big gray cloud had swept over the pretty summer sky. "Aren't you going to congratulate your brother?"

But Harry didn't feel like congratulating anyone. Especially not Jimmy. He didn't know why, but the unpleasant feeling had snuggled into his stomach and now it was stuck. Suddenly he felt like crying, which made him scared because he didn't understand why. And then the sacred made tears come quicker, and Harry didn't know what to do. The crying felt like a secret, like Jimmy and mommy's loveliness, or Miss Wittman and Magic.

"I don't feel so good," Harry muttered, because it was what Jimmy always said when he wanted to be by himself, and daddy.

"Are you sick baby," Mama said, her face getting worried-which was another bad expression. Harry shook his head, standing up before she could check his forehead.

"Uh uh. I'm just sleepy."

"Why don't you turn in early Harry?" Daddy said, with a little smile that said worried just as much as mama's frown. Harry nodded, and hopped off his chair, which was much to tall. He scrambled up the cat-scratch stairs-he'd nick-named them because unlike the ones that went down Batilda had scraped them up to a point where the wood was hardly brown so much as white. The cat-scratch stairs were easier than the down stairs, he guessed that was why Batilda liked them so much.

The top of the cat-scratch stairs was mama and daddy's room, Harry only ever went there when he had a nightmare. This was real waking day time, and mama and daddy were still at the table, so Harry skipped that door. The next one was green-because green was Jimmy and Harry's favorite color, and it was there own private room-so daddy had let them do whatever they wanted.

Mama had yelled at daddy for a whole ten minutes when she saw.

He went through that door, because Jimmy and Harry's door was for everything that wasn't nightmares. There beds were twins, just like they were-which made Harry crack a smile even though the icky feeling was still knotted up in his chest. His bed was the messy one, because mama had done Jimmy's first today, and the Longbottoms had been early.

He fell onto it, and his pillow seemed to eat him up as he looked at the little spider crawling across the ceiling. Harry didn't mind spiders, though Jimmy and Daddy _hated_ them. It always made mama laugh when daddy had to call Harry to take them into the lawn, daddy might have protested, but he was usually too busy cowering in the corner away from the door.

The spider went into the corner, as if it had read Harry's mind, and then dark part of the ceiling made his little silhouette disappear. Harry glanced to his left, spotting _The Tales of Beedle the Bard_, which mama had gotten Jimmy and him for their 5 year birthday. She'd been showing them how to read on it. Harry liked reading, though not as much as Quidditch-which daddy had been showing them. He didn't think people who didn't feel well were supposed to play Quidditch through, so he picked up the book, opening up to a story called "The Tale of Three Brothers."

The words were hard, and it took Harry a long time to make the little squiggly black things into sounds, but the story was interesting enough. Three brothers were walking along to a little village when they came to a very tricky bit of water. The brothers were magically like mama and daddy and Jimmy and Harry, so they passed the river easy. But a gruesome man called death didn't like that very much. Harry didn't understand why death was offering the brothers presents though, when he was displeased he didn't give anyone _presents_.

Harry was working on a particularly tricky sentence to do with something called _evade_, when a knock sounded at his door. It was a daddy knock, loud and decisive, and a little bit like a game. Daddy's nocks always had patterns.

"Come in," Harry yelled, trying to force his voice through the wood. Daddy pushed the door open, smiling at Harry when he spotted the book perched on his knees.

"Beedle huh?" He said, walking over the creaky floor that always sung little songs when big people crossed it. Harry couldn't get it to sing unless he jumped, though sometimes him and Jimmy could step on the same spot at once, and the wood would squeal-just a little. Daddy finish his trek across the singing floor, sitting next to Harry's feet on the messy twin-bed.

Harry nodded suddenly, realizing he'd never answered daddy's question.

"You're shaping up to be like your mother. Alway buried in a book that one."

Harry wrinkled his nose, he wasn't sure he wanted to be a bookworm. He was a _boy_. And Jimmy said bookworms were gits, whatever that meant-Harry was pretty sure he'd gotten it from Uncle Padfoot. "I like books," he whispered hesitantly, because daddy was wearing his waiting face. "But Quidditch is better."

Daddy ruffled his hair, laughing a little as he leaned down on Harry's pillow. "That it is Harry, that it is." Daddy took Harry's book from his lap, peering at the story he was currently deciphering. "Bit grim, isn't it?" He asked, scanning the text in that fast way grown-ups could do.

Harry shrugged. "I hadn't gotten very far. I don't know what a 'evade' is."

Daddy smiled, flipping the pages back to the one with the evade bit. He cleared his throat, smiling slightly as Harry tipped his head onto his shoulder. "Harry," he said, glancing away from the book for a moment. "You know we love you very much, don't you?"

Harry nodded fervently. How could they not love him very very much? They were his parents, that was what parents were for, wasn't it? Daddy smiled, looking back at the book.

"He pretended to congratulate the three brothers upon their magic and said that each had earned a prize for having been clever enough to evade him-"

There was another phrase that rang through Harry's childhood after that, _empty promises_.

A week later the funny man came. He had a long white beard like Harry always thought Santa Claus would have, and a pair of twinkly blue eyes that seemed to look through Harry rather than at him. His clothes were even odder that his eyes, a big purple cloak with a starry pointed hat that was taller than his chest, paired with boots that made his feet look like squares. He even wore glasses like Harry, though his were shaped like the moon when the nighttime cut it up.

Harry and Jimmy had to leave the room while the funny man talked to mama and daddy. They stood just outside the thin wood door wrestling for the keyhole, but Harry was smaller and the fight wasn't crouched against the floor, which smelled like patches and old things that had worn away with the seasons. He didn't mind the smell, though the view of the odd square shoes wasn't very pleasant.

The adults talked in those quiet voices that meant something was much too important to be loud. Harry could hardly catch a word, though Jimmy kept muttering things like "boy who lived," and "proper training," that he couldn't make heads or tails of.

By the time tea had come, Harry had retreated to his room, trying to finish "The Tale of Three Brothers," he'd fallen asleep at the part where the second one dies for his true love. Harry didn't understand if that love was the same love daddy had said he felt for Harry, or the same love mama expressed to daddy every morning. He wasn't entirely sure those were different either.

Tea came and went, but no one came to get him so Harry stayed put, reading the grim story of death taking each brother for his own with the trapped gifts, until finally the third brother managed to evade him. Harry didn't get why the third brother would ever reveal himself-if death was so awful why wouldn't you stay hidden? And how could you walk away as equals if one person is the captor?

And the third brother was meant to be smart.

Dinner was a very quiet affair, compared to how loud it usually was. The funny man had gone, but mama kept giving Harry sideways looks. Harry didn't like that, as looks should be forward and anything that contradicted was usually bad news.

When dinner was over mama and daddy asked Jimmy to stay behind. Harry went back upstairs, and started on another story, "The Fountain of Youth" which promised to make more sense than "The Tale of Three Brothers."

After an hour had passed, and Harry had finished the story which he'd decided was his favorite reading so far, he tucked the book on his bedside table and turned out the light, closing his eyes which suddenly felt as heavy as the resurrection stone.

He woke up only once, when Jimmy came through the door, across the singing floor, and into his bed, his face so white it glowed-like a lantern in the night.

A few days later, the funny man came again. He was just as _flamboyant_, a word he'd learned from Beedle, as he had been the last time, but this time his robes were blue and his hat seemed to have fallen over at the top. Harry felt like he should tell the funny man that, but the thought made that notty feeling in his stomach come back again.

Ever since the funny man had come, Harry had only seen mama and Daddy for lunchtime, and dinner, not even tea or breakfast. He would always wake up to find Jimmy had gone away, and mama and Daddy were in the parlor with him, discussing parlor things which Harry wasn't ever allowed to hear. Parlor things were whisper quiet, much, much, much, much too important to be loud.

Harry didn't like having to stay up in his room. He had so much time he'd nearly finished _The Tales of Beedle the Bard_. He didn't understand why all of the sudden only Jimmy was allowed to have mama and daddy, weren't they Harry's mama and daddy too? Hadn't daddy told him that?

Daddy never ever broke his promises. So if daddy said he loved Harry then he must-but why would you shut someone you love away when the second brother was willing to go with death to bring love back? Didn't that mean love was precious? _Yes_, Harry decided, _and daddy never lies, so the funny man must of made them stop loving me for a little while_.

That made Harry angry. Why did the funny man get to do that to him? He hadn't done anything to the funny man, except give him the nickname and think his shoes were silly, but that was all in his mind, and not even magic could see inside your mind. Mama had told him that, that minds were precious, just like love was, because no one could ever ever take them away from you.

But the funny man seemed to have done just that.

Harry's racing thoughts stopped all of the sudden, so all of the sudden he could almost hear a _screech_. Because the funny man wasn't all by himself this time. Next to him was a pretty lady with big greenish robes that reminded Harry of a lime-the yucky outside part you don't eat. On his other side was a short man with only half a nose, and a big blue eye that swiveled around at every moment, and seemed to be fixed on Harry-even though his other one was looking at mama.

Daddy seemed to follow the big blue eye, because a moment later Harry was spotted. He'd been hiding in the corner, which was dark just like the ceiling one, and made him disappear just like the spider if he crouched really low.

"Harry," he said, his voice softening slightly from the angry whispers he'd been using to great nose man. "This is grown up business ok? Can you go back up to your room, I'll call you down when we're all finished."

Harry suddenly felt very annoyed with his daddy. If it was grown up business why did Jimmy get to be here? And why did Jimmy look so frightened? Maybe because the green lady was approaching him cautiously, peering at the tiny star shaped scar on his forehead.

Harry knew he and his brother had gotten the scars (he had a lightning bolt), when they were very very little, and a bad man like death came to there house while mama and daddy were gone. He sent somebody called a Peter, who was watching them, to that place where grandma had gone, through Peter's always made daddy cry more. Then he'd tried to use bad magic on Harry and Jimmy and it had made him go away, leaving them with little scars on their foreheads.

Harry understood why Jimmy didn't want his touched, that always made Harry uncomfortable.

Daddy was still looking at him, a little bit of sad had leaked into his eyes. Harry frowned, he didn't want daddy to be sad, he'd better go. His room wasn't so bad, and if he had a nightmare, mama and daddy would always be downstairs.

Always.

The funny man was always there after that. In the month he'd been coming to the house he'd never once spoken to Harry, or even made eye contact with him. He was always there for Jimmy. A few days after the incident with the green lady and the nose man mama had explained to Harry that Jimmy had a very special _destiny_, a word he'd read in "The Fountain of Youth," which was still his favorite story. She'd said that when that bad man came with his bad magic all those years ago, Jimmy had gotten him to go away, which was very very important for the wizard world. Harry had nodded, because he understood that Jimmy was special. He just didn't get why that meant he couldn't be.

Harry still hadn't gotten any magic, which had started to worry him-though he dared not mention it to anybody, not even mama and daddy. Now he had a secret, just like Jimmy, but he didn't like it very much.

He only ever saw his family at dinner time now, he ate all the rest of his meals in his room. The little twin beds felt grim now that only one of them was taken up.

Dinner was quiet, and filled with things Harry didn't understand. The not understanding made that notty shady feeling in his stomach burrow further, until he could hardly stand to be around mama and daddy and Jimmy. He'd gotten very very good at reading, he'd taken one of mama's non-magic books out of the nightmare room. It was about a tall man named Sherlock and his friend Doctor Watson. The words however, were much much larger than the ones in Beedles stories-and the squiggles took him an awfully long time to figure out. Even then he didn't always know what they meant, but the plot was exciting and he didn't have anything else to do.

That was the other problem with the funny man. Ever since he'd been coming there was no more Quidditch, no more zoo, no more parks or games or daddy ruffling his hair. There was only inside, and reading, and quiet dinners were Harry counted the minutes until he could leave.

"Harry!" Mama's voice called from down the cat-scratch stairs, because mama was always too busy now to come up to Harry's room. "Dinners ready!"

Harry peered at a particularly hard word, _improbable_. Sherlock, who was a detective like daddy was an Auror, or at least he used to be before the funny man came, was working out a really tough case about a dead man and some german letters on the wall. German, Harry discovered, was much harder than english-even Sir Arthur Conan Doyle english, which was very hard indeed. The mystery was just starting to pick up, and Harry didn't want to leave Sherlock behind for another dinner where he didn't get to talk at all. _Maybe mama won't mind if I take the book_, Harry thought, holding it up to his face as he walked towards the door. _It's not like I _do _anything anyway_.

So Sherlock stayed clutched in his five year old hands, as he crossed the Hallway, the nightmare door, and the catscratch stairs, finally coming to the big dining room. Except, it didn't feel as big as usually.

Harry looked up from his book to see there were much too many people at the table. There was Uncle Padfoot, Agusta Long-something, Uncle Moony, Nose man, green lady, and in all his _flamboyant_ glory, funny man-this time with a robe the color of stars when the night was clear. Harry didn't like it, all these strangers in his dining room. Especially since they were all looking at him, and none of the funny man people every paid any attention to Harry. Even Uncle Moony and Uncle Padfoot had been much less chatty than usual, spending all there time in the hushed little world that revolved around his brother-the hushed little world Harry wasn't allowed into.

Jimmy waved at him slightly, looking much to pale with big purple spots under his hazel eyes.

"Harry," mama said smiling. "What've you brought down?"

"Sher-Sher'ock," he muttered, still uncomfortable with all the eyes facing him. "I finished Beedle, and everyone was busy so I just picked one off the shelf." Mama grinned walked up to him and peering down at the page he had opened to, where Sherlock was telling inspector Lestrade, who thought a bit too much of himself, how terribly stupid he'd been.

"Isn't this a little advanced sweetie?" She asked, frowning as she scanned the sentences.

Harry shrugged his shoulders, not knowing what to say, but not wanting the book to be taken away. "It's harder than the three brothers, but it's better too." Mama smiled, sharing one of those talking looks with daddy that said things that mama didn't want Harry to know. Like German, but without any sounds.

"Harry," she whispered, steering him towards the table. "This is Alastor Moody, Healer Elena Abbot, and Professor Dumbledore." She gestured first to nose man, then to the green lady, and finally to funny man, who was doing that odd thing with his eyes-were he looked into Harry instead of at him. "Professor Dumbledore is the headmaster at Hogwarts, where daddy and I met."

Funny man nodded slightly at Harry, and then turned to his mama frowning. "Lily, we need to leave quickly." Mama scowled at funny man, and then turned back to Harry. Her eyes were more than sad, they were _very_ sad big and green and almost filled with secret tears. Harry didn't want mama to be sad at all-and he was mad at himself that he'd made her that way. Maybe mama needed a hug-when Harry was sad daddy would always give him a hug-or he used to, before everyone was too busy for that sort of thing.

Harry set his book on the table, careful flipping the corner of the page so he would find it again, and stretched his arms around the place just above mama's knees (he couldn't reach any higher.)

"Don't be sad mama," he said, letting go of her legs and pleading with his eyes so she would be happy again. Harry liked it when mama was happy-she filled the whole room with good things.

Mama smiled at him-but it was a weak worry-smile, the kind of smile that comes before lots of _bad_ things. "Harry," she said, kneeling down so her eyes were right in front of his. "Mommy and daddy have to go away for a little bit with Jimmy and Professor Dumbledore."

"Ok," Harry said, nodding slightly. "I'll go pack my bags." Harry started to turn around, because if they had to leave quickly mama really should have given him more time-but she took him by the shoulders before he could step away.

"No sweetie. Why were gone, you're going to stay with Miss Wittman." Harry nearly jumped. He felt that knotted feeling in his stomach twist and twist and twist until it was squeezing all the other feelings away and all he felt was shock and cold and bad. Tears started to brim in his eyes, secret tears that he could get away because the notty feeling was pushing them out, until he was crying and mama's sunshine was all gone, and Jimmy was staring at the floor. And daddy looked like he didn't know what to do but Harry didn't care because they'd _promised_. They'd promised that they loved Harry just as much as Jimmy even if he didn't have the destiny, and the funny man was just staring, staring right at him, and Uncle Moony was crying a little too, but he didn't get to cry, because he was going away with mama and daddy who didn't love him anymore because if they did they wouldn't leave him all alone.

Then a thought stuck Harry, an evil thought. What if mama and daddy didn't want him anymore? What if they just kept him because he wasn't a bother, and if he cried and cried and begged they would leave him for ever and ever. Harry still loved them, even if they didn't love him, and he didn't want them to be away for ever and ever. Never for ever and ever. Maybe if he left, if he pretended that he wasn't hurt at all-they would let him stay.

"I don't feel very well," Harry hiccuped, wiping away the tears still running down his cheeks like they were little tiny racetracks. He turned away, and walked really really slowly, so no one could see how much he wanted to be away-and how much he wished he could stay. Those things were _oppisite_, another word he'd learned from Beedle, and he didn't know how he could feel them at once, because opposite things were for different times. But he did, he felt them all in that knot in his stomach as he ran up the cat scratch stairs, because no one could see him anymore, past the nightmare door, and through the green one. His bed felt like a differnt place than it had when daddy had read him about the man called death, and the gifts that weren't gifts at all. But Harry understood the story now-he understood why the third brother had gone away, when he could have stayed.

There are some things that can only be broken.

Miss Wittman was younger than he remembered.

Harry hadn't seen her up close in quite some while, because if he wasn't allowed to say anything about magic, what was there to talk about? He'd always thought of her as old, old and by herself-which was why she was the opposite of crowded, why she was sad.

Harry understood that too.

But Miss Wittman couldn't have been much older than mama, even if it was hidden away by her grayish-brown hair, that reminded him of salt and pepper when Jimmy had spilled them together. When she smiled at him Harry could see it though.

Miss Wittman was awfully lovely when she smiled.

Daddy, who had taken him over because mama was too busy with secret tears-talked to Miss Wittman for a moment, handing her Harry's big trunk. Jimmy and Harry had gotten the trunks for there four year presents-mama had told him they were for the magical school where Harry would go when he was old enough.

The school were the funny man worked.

Miss Wittman didn't ask very many questions-unless they were eye questions Harry couldn't see because he had his eyes down. Miss Wittman had a doormat. Mama and Daddy didn't have a doormat-but Harry supposed that was just because they could magic all the dirt away. If you weren't even allowed to _talk_ about magic Harry doubted you could use it.

After a few minutes that seemed to go on awfully long, daddy knelt down.

"Harry," he whispered. Harry kept his eyes firmly on the doormat-it was brown, maybe so the mud wouldn't show up so much. "Harry sweetie, this is only for a week okay? Mommy and daddy will be back soon." Harry nodded, because it might make daddy go away, and while daddy was there the knotty feeling still hurt. Daddy put a hand on Harry's shoulder, but he didn't look up.

"I love you Harry." Daddy sounded hurt, just like Harry felt. Harry didn't want daddy to hurt. But he knew if he looked up the feeling would push the tears out of his eyes again, and daddy and mama would send him away. So he didn't look up, not even when daddy stood, not even when he walked away.

Miss Wittman led him inside. Her hands were soft, and Harry's arms were bare because it was summertime, and jackets didn't belong in summertime. She showed him where the bathroom was and the kitchen, told him he could use something called a television whenever he wanted, and then finally led him up some stairs without any scratches to a little wooden door.

Miss Wittman had very nice carpets.

Harry's room felt very empty with only one bed. Miss Wittman put his trunk by the end of his bed, and Harry thanked her quiet enough so that his voice would break apart. And then he was alone.

He opened his trunk. Mama and Daddy had packed him a few of him and Jimmy's t-shirts, some jeans, no robes. Harry supposed if Miss Wittman didn't know about magic she didn't know about robes either-at least, he'd never seen her were any. He flipped through the _mundane_, a Sir Arthur word, layers of clothes until he got to the bottom.

Tucked under a few pairs of clean socks was Sherlock Holmes, the corner still flipped up on Sherlocks conversation with Lestrade. He'd only read it an hour ago.

That hour felt like ages.

Harry flipped the book open. The pages smelled nice, different than mama's parchment, but still nice. Especially when Harry flipped them around, so the words all blended together. He did that for a few minutes, watching the ink drift into the paper until all there was was a sort of gray color. The gray made Harry sad for some reason, so he stopped, turning to his little marker which had survived all the flipping.

Harry read for an while. He didn't know how long, after nearly a month of being hold up in his opposite-of-crowded room, he wasn't any good at time. But when a knock sounded on the door the light filtering through the big glass window had nearly gone away.

"Harry?" It was Miss Wittman, and Harry looked up to see her standing just inside the doorframe, her hand on the little crystal doorknob. "Would you like some dinner?"

Harry was about to shake his head when his stomach growled, so loudly it almost sounded like a little dragon had taken _refuge_ (another Doyle word) in Miss Wittmans house. He giggled a little, and for a moment the knotty-ness seemed to loosen a little. Miss Wittman smiled again.

"You look nicer when you smile Miss Wittman," Harry said, not realizing he'd spoken out loud until Miss Wittman blushed.

"You're much too nice Harry I'm sure, now how about you come downstairs?" That sounded like something someone in Mr. Doyles book would say, maybe an heiress who'd had all her jewels taken away.

It wasn't fair, Harry thought, that nice people never seemed to be allowed to have jewels.

The dinner was yummy, though not as yummy as what daddy cooked (mama always said she couldn't cook for her life, whatever that meant, so daddy always made dinner), and Harry slurped up his spaghetti and meatballs faster than the clock on Miss Wittmans oven could go from 7:00 to 7:05. He didn't realize how hungry he was until all of it was gone.

A lot of things seemed like that now.

"Why do you live all by yourself?" Harry asked, once he'd wiped the red sauce off his chin, because Miss Wittman seemed very very nice so far. Had her mama and daddy left her all alone as well? Did she know why Harry's had?

Miss Wittman dropped her fork into her spagetti, her jaw dropping slightly. Had Harry said something that wasn't okay? Mama usually told him when he did that, or when Jimmy did (which was much more). But mama was away, with the funny man and daddy and Uncle Moony and Padfoot-somewhere only hushed-world people could go. Miss Wittman still look startled, and her fork had started to sink into the pasta. Harry didn't know if he should get it for her, but he decided not to because mama said never to touch other peoples food, and Harry supposed that applied even when forks were drowning.

"What?" Miss Wittman said, finally closing her mouth. Harry frowned. He didn't know how to make the question any clearer. Maybe she just wanted him to say it different.

"Where are your mama and daddy?" He asked, pushing his plate over so he could put his elbows on the table. "Did they leave you all alone? My mama and daddy left me all alone, even though daddy said he loved me just as much as my brother. But I don't know if you can love someone and leave them all alone at once, because those are-" he struggled to think of the word. "Antanimes. Do you know if people can still love you if they leave you all alone Miss Wittman?"

Miss Wittman looked at him with saucers eyes. Harry hadn't seen anyone do saucer eyes since the funny man had come, and it almost made him laugh. Except that feeling, the feeling that had gone away for dinner had come creeping back again like when death came to the second brother even though he didn't know it was gonna happen. Could people love you and leave you all alone? Those words felt like a secret too, but Harry was awfully tired of secrets.

"I-" Miss Wittman said, and Harry could almost swear he saw water on the edge of her eye. But why would Miss Wittman be sad? Harry was sad, but that didn't mean she had to be sad too did it? Harry hoped not, he hoped he didn't make her sad, because sad was the opposite of smiling and when Miss Wittman was sad she didn't look lovely anymore.

Just the opposite-of-crowded all over again. Just alone.

"Harry," she said, wiping her eye quickly with her sleeve. "Harry your parents love you very very much alright? Sometimes-" she stood up, walking over to him and kneeling down like mama always did. "Sometimes we have to be alone for a while so we can be together again."

Mama and Daddy came back a week later.

They left again a week after that.

Harry and Miss Wittman started to do the same sorts of things every day, just like Harry's real family had used to. Every morning Miss Wittman would wake up around 7:00 and turn on her television (a box that Harry thought must be _some_ sort of magic) to watch the news-which told non-magic people what was going on. Whenever Harry woke up, he would go down, and watch the Lady's with lots of makeup, and the men with very stiff hair chat about things he didn't really understand. But Miss Wittmans big red armchairs were comfy, and it was much better than being by himself.

After that Harry would make himself some cereal, and Miss Wittman went to her job, which was like daddy and the auror office, except Miss Wittman went to a great big house filled with books, rather than the ministry. She told Harry she was a librarian, and that a librarian was a person who gave people books to keep for sometimes.

A lot of the time, Miss Wittman took Harry to work with her. The big library house smelled just like the Sherlock book, and Harry liked to sit in the aisles and flip through all the pages-there had to be millions-of all the books. He didn't know what most of them were about, but he liked the way the words sounded.

After the Library, they would walk back home, past the window of Harry's _real_ room, dark like it always seemed to be, and back into Miss Wittman's house. On her magic box Miss Wittman would watch something called football, which was made up of little people kicking a black and white ball around a field.

The fourth time Harry stayed with Miss Wittman, she brought one of the black and white ball's out of the cupboard under the stairs. Harry hadn't _played_ anything in a long time, not since the funny man had changed everything.

Football was fun. Especially since Miss Whitman told him he was a natural. Though he did miss flying on broomsticks.

He didn't tell Miss Wittman about that of coarse.

When fall started, Miss Wittman asked Harry why he didn't go to school. Harry didn't know, except that wizards _couldn't_ go to school until they were old enough. But Miss Wittman didn't know about magic, so he told her that mama taught him.

Miss Wittman frowned at that, but she didn't ask him again.

In October, Harry stayed with Miss Wittman for three weeks. Even though Harry didn't see mama and Daddy and Jimmy very often anymore, this was the longest they'd ever been away. The longest Harry had ever been away from them.

Daddy took Harry to her door, like he always did, but he seemed rushed, and nervous. Well, more nervous than usual.

"You can go if you need to dad," Harry said, grabbing his trunk from his dad's arms and hauling it over to Miss Wittmans staircase.

"Dad?" Harry's dad said, finally looking down at him.

"Yeah?" Harry said, knocking on Miss Wittmans door. She'd promised to play a few rounds of football with him before it started to rain.

"You've never called me anything but 'daddy' before Harry."

Harry thought for a moment, listening to Miss Wittman's footsteps as they rapidly approached the door. "Before was a long time ago," He said, turning away from his dad as the doorknob started to turn.

When spring came, Miss Wittman asked him if he wanted to join one of Godric's Hollows little football teams, and Harry said yes.

The football coach was named Mr. Walsh, and he was very big, not as tall as dad, but with a lot _more_ of him. Miss Wittman said he was very muscular. Harry wasn't sure what that meant, but he liked football. They didn't play any games, but they had little scrimmages, which were like little games, in the churchyard (the grassiest place in town).

"Potter!" Coach Walsh yelled, making Harry's thoughts go away. "Pass to Billing, he's wide open!"

Harry looked over at Peter, who he was pretty sure was also Billing, and kicked the ball as hard as he could towards him. It went flying across the grass, and in between Peters ready feet.

Coach Walsh gave him a rare smile when Peter scored.

Harry was at Miss Wittmans house more often than he wasn't now. His mum and his dad and his brother had been gone for nearly a month this time. He wasn't sure when they were coming back.

He tried to pretend he didn't care.

When Harry was six another little boy came to stay at Miss Wittman's house.

Miss Wittman told Harry he was her nephew, and that her sister and the boy's father had gone away to the same place as grandma. She was sad like mum always was when she said that.

Harry wondered if the three brothers were there too.

The boy liked to sit, especially in the corner. He was the opposite of Harry's mum, when Harry's mum had been happy all the time. Like all the sunshine had gone out of him. Miss Wittman seemed sadder than he'd seen her in a long long time.

Harry didn't like it when Miss Wittman was sad, and he didn't like it that the boy was sad either. Harry knew what it was like to be sad, and no one deserved it.

No one at all.

Harry stood up, glancing away from the football match at the boy, who was sitting on the farthest chair with his legs pulled in. He walked over, being careful to dodge the television because Miss Wittman could get very off when her football was interrupted, and finally coming up next to "the boy".

His hair was the sandy sort of brown, like-Harry searched for the name-Moony. It was straight too, like Jimmy's always had been, and his clothes were rumpled, like they'd been worn for too long. He was a very average sort of boy, except for the sad expression on his face. Harry had learned from football that most boys his age didn't have that kind of expression.

There wasn't anywhere to sit by the far armchair, maybe that was why the boy had picked it. Harry knew that sometimes people were alone because being together hurt too much. It was like that with mom and dad now, when they came home for a few days, maybe a week if it was a good month. They had all these adventures to talk about, all these incredible _magical_ things to talk about.

After the funny man, magic didn't feel so real anymore.

Harry shifted from foot to foot for a moment, before pushing a few old papers off Miss Wittmans coffee table and plopping down next to the lonely boy.

"Hi," He said, smiling a little worry smile at the boy, because he didn't look like he was going to introduce himself if Harry didn't start. "My names Harry, Harry Potter." He held out his hand to the boy, because Miss Wittman had told him that was the polite thing to do when you met new people.

The average-but-not-average boy peered at Harry's hand like it was one of Sherlock's particularly grizzly clues, maybe a disembodied finger. Then, looking very nervous, he took it shaking it as briefly as possible before tucking his hand back into his lap.

"I'm Justin," he whispered, almost too quietly to be heard. His voice had a funny sort of tone, like someone who was from a far away place. "Justin Miller-Webster." It was an odd name, Harry had never heard of anyone with _two_ surnames before, but Justin seemed alright. He kept his eyes firmly on his shoes when he talked, though every once and a while he would look up warily at the television.

"Do you like football?" Harry asked curiously, hoping that Justin might want to play a few rounds. Miss Wittman had a very large yard, not quite as large as mum and dad's, but big enough for a good football match. It was winter, and the little Godric's Hollow football league only played in the spring and summer, when it was warm and pleasant. Warm and pleasant were fine, but Harry was starting to get bored of the day's spent wasting away inside Miss Wittman's little house, and he'd nearly read all the Sherlock Holmes books.

"Yeah," Justin said, looking up at Harry for a moment. "Me and my dad used to play back at home." Harry grinned. He and _his_ dad had used to play Quidditch, which wasn't all that different than football. It was the one time he felt closer to James than Jimmy, because though Jimmy was good Harry was _loads_ better and he knew it.

_Quidditch_. Harry hadn't played Quidditch in ages. He hadn't even _talked_ to his dad one on one in ages, not to mention his twin brother.

Harry stilled missed before sometimes.

"Are you alright?" Justin Miller-Webster asked, frowning at him, the moment of sunshine that had come over him fading back into shadows. Harry wished it wouldn't, Justin seemed like he deserved a bit of light.

So Harry decided to keep things that way.

"I'm Fine," he said, brushing off Justin's furrowed brow. "Me and my dad used to play too. You want a match?"

Justin Miller-Webster grinned.

"Harry?" He asked, when they were both lying in the grass, covered in mud and sweating even though tiny flakes of snow had started to fall from the grumpy gray clouds. "What's your dad's name?"

"James," Harry said, catching a bit of white on his tongue. "His name is James."

Justin never left after that. Every time Harry came by he was there. Miss Wittman had started to smile much more often, and even Justin grinned once in a while.

Harry was happy for them. Those two deserved each other.

Justin and Harry played football in the backyard on most afternoons they were together, and when spring came, he went with Harry to the churchyard and coach Walsh. Justin was a very good sport with those backyard games, Harry nearly always won.

"Justin?" Harry asked one day, sitting in the Yard, with his feet propped up on Miss Wittman's flower pots. She'd probably kill him later, but it was worth it. "Do you believe in magic?"

"I dunno," Justin had answered, taking a bit out of an apple he'd nicked from the kitchen. Justin did things like that, though Harry didn't really see the point. If he wanted food he would just ask Miss Wittman, who was always complaining about how skinny he was. It wasn't worth getting in trouble if he didn't need too. Still, Miss Wittman would never punish Justin, not really. Justin and Miss Wittman were like Harry's mum and his brother-so close that they could never really stay angry with each other.

Harry could never be like that. Because Harry already had a mum, even if she wasn't always there.

"Harry?" Justin asked, tossing his apple core toward a little bed of azaleas. "Why do you always stay with aunt Emma?" Aunt Emma was what Justin called Miss Wittman. Harry didn't think she would mind if he called her that too.

But he didn't want to get too close to either of them. People who were close to him always seemed to go away.

For a moment, Harry wanted to tell Justin about the bad man with the bad magic, and the Flamboyant professor, and the green lady. About the hushed little world that revolved around Jimmy and the words that were too important to be loud, and all the things that were just like the secret tears, noted so far inside him Harry didn't remember what it was like without them.

Harry was so tired of secrets.

"They work a lot," Harry said, swallowing the lump that had grown up from his stomach into his throat. "They went to this special school, and now they do-er-secret government stuff. I'm not supposed to talk about it."

"Oh," Justin muttered, frowning. "Ok."

On Harry's seventh birthday Miss Wittman came up to him, looking like she'd grown a lump in her throat too. Her eyes were red and her cheeks were red, and her fingers were twitching like they always did when she was uneasy.

"Are you alright Miss Wittman?" Harry asked, tucking the football he'd been bringing out of the yard under his elbow. She opened her mouth like she was about to talk to him, but instead she knelt down, pulling him into a tight hug.

Oh Harry," she said, choking on the words like they were sticky in her throat.

Lily and James didn't come back on July 31st that year. Harry didn't know why, he didn't ask. He didn't care, he _didn't_.

He couldn't explain the tears running around his cheeks.

When he went down for dinner that night Justin and Miss Wittman were already sitting at the big table, though neither of them seemed to have eaten very much. Harry pulled out his chair, the big one next to Justin he always sat in, and silently made his way through his mashed potatoes, trying to keep his eyes down so no one would see they were red.

"Harry?" Miss Wittman said, when he had finished the little portions on his plate. "Sweetie, we got you a present." Harry looked up, to see a big red box with a big gold bow, sitting on the table right in front of his plate, glittering in the summer light filtering through the windows.

"All I had were Christmas wrappings," Miss Wittman explained apologetically, nudging the gift towards him. "It's not much-"

Harry reached for the gift trying to smile. "Thanks Miss Wittman-that's, that's really nice of you." He pulled lightly on the bow, setting it off the the his left, an empty seat, and then carefully ripping off the paper to reveal a little white box. Harry frowned up at Miss Wittman, eye the box curiously and then glancing up at her again.

"Open it," she said, and Justin grinned leaning in to watch as Harry unfastened the cardboard that held the thing together. He popped the top over his plate and smiled, a real smile this time. Inside the box was a fresh football, white and black plastic stretched around the perfect little sphere. He pulled it carefully from the box, grinning a how smooth it felt, not a single blemish, not even on the white bits.

"Do you like it?" Justin said enthusiastically, bouncing on the cushion of his chair.

"Yeah," Harry said, blinking one more secret tear out of his eye. But it wasn't the sad knotted kind of tear, it was a sunshine kind of tear, the kind of tear Harry hadn't had in a long while. "It's brilliant."

Miss Wittman smiled, a real smile too, watching as he passed the ball to a very eager Justin. Then she frowned, reaching across the table to touch his shoulder "Harry" She whispered, so softly he almost asked her to say it again. "You know your parents would have come if they could've?" Harry felt something erupt in his chest, something foreign when it came to his parents. His-Harry felt a twinge. Mum and dad didn't feel right anymore somehow. Other people spent _loads_ more time with him then them, and they didn't get an special titles. Just names, just people. _Lily_ Harry thought, the feeling heating up inside him. _Lily and James_. Just people, just people who weren't allowed to hurt him anymore. Harry nodded, he nodded because finally something in him had snapped, not just a little-but all the way. His fist's clenched slightly under the table.

"Yeah," he said, because Miss Wittman was waiting for a reply. "I'm sure whatever Lily and James are doing it's _really_ important.

He'd been happy when it came to his parents, then sad. Now he could only feel one thing, anger.

When the Potter's left Godrics Hollow for good in September, taking there other son with them for the first time, Emma Wittman nearly cried.

Harry gave her and Justin the cat. Batilda was its name. He told them that she was getting too old to travel, and that he would just forget to feed her. He took the football-tucked it in that big trunk he always brought over.

She nearly cried when he dragged it down the steps. She nearly cried when he hugged her around the waist. She felt the tears well up in her eyes when he told Justin goodbye, and when he thanked her just for being around.

Or when she told him it was no trouble at all.

She did cry when she watched him climb into the Potter's car, a sleek sporty sort of car, watched him stuff that big trunk into the back.

She didn't watch as the car rode away, she didn't see his face pressed against the window glass.

She always regretted that.

**Some of this was literally painful to write. When little Harry called his mum and dad Lily and James...I'm sorry Harry, I gave you a little family then I ripped them away. I suck.**

**Anyway, review if you want a second chapter, I haven't decided if I should continue this, or make it a really really long one shot.**

**Thanks for reading!**


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